Spectacular Works, Simple Obedience

Before leaving for Africa, I signed a liability release that
said, "risks include, but are not limited to, the risk of
death, incarceration, torture, bodily injury exposure to
war, terrorism, hazardous diseases." I didn't mention this
to my mother, who when I was studying to be a photojournalist
would say, "Just don't go off to some war zone."

But I wanted to tell a story that few others were telling. In
Sudan, an Islamic fundamentalist regime wages war against the
predominantly Christian and animist South. The regimeaided
by the investments of multinational petroleum
corporationshas been attempting to convert the region to
Islam and drive civilians from oil-rich lands. Seventeen years of
civil war have killed 2 million people. More than 4 million have
been made homeless.

Our team of seven, all but myself from a Mennonite church in
Pennsylvania, felt compelled to respond to horror stories of
religious persecution and slavery in Sudan. A member of their
congregation was now the Africa director for Safe Harbor
International, the Christian relief organization that would host
us. We hoped our emergency medical aid and the testimonies we'd
take home would somehow make a difference.

We arrived in Nairobi, Kenya, and waited for clearance from
the Ugandan government to fly to a base in Uganda and then to
Sudan.

The clearance never came.

Though Safe Harbor is well connected and had been assured that
the flight would be no problem, it would have been the first of
its kind authorized from Uganda to Sudan. After two days of
waiting in Nairobi, we had to cut red tape just to fly into
Uganda. Tears of disappointment were shed. It felt as though we
were being denied our call to do a mighty work in a place of
intense suffering. As we spent our remaining days helping in
open-air clinics in and around the rural village of Midigo in
northwest Uganda, we struggled with our new calling.

We had been willing to offer great sacrifice. Instead we were
being called simply to do justice, love mercy, and walk humbly
with our God, wherever that might lead us. This slower,
longer-term approach interfered with our desire for spectacular
visible results.

Only by squinting through the lens of Jesus' own ministry did
the meaning of ours begin to come into focus. At the time, I was
reading In the Name of Jesus, in which Henri Nouwen
explains the core of Jesus' temptation in the desert as the urge
to do spectacular works instead of simply being obedient. In our
frustration, we struggled with the need to surrender our agenda
to God's.

"But wanting to justify himself, he asked Jesus,
And who is my neighbor?' Jesus replied, There was
once a man....'" Luke 10:29-30

A bleeding man stood in front of me in our makeshift clinic in
Midigo. He was a Sudanese refugee, now separated from his
homeland by 25 kilometers of rolling hills and land mines. But he
wasn't bleeding because of religious persecution or slavery or
war. He had fled Sudan seven years ago at the age of 14. Recently
a gang of youths had beaten him up in a dispute concerning his
sister.

I saw this man's pain, but I still wanted to be in
Sudanwhere the "real" suffering was. But I didn't
want to be the priest or Levite that passed on the other side of
the road, so I listened impatiently as those caring for him spoke
of the crisis in their own community.

"We are amputated at the hands for lack of funds,"
said Ondoga Simon, the local clinical officer, bringing to mind
the Islamic sharia law enforced in Sudan, which punishes
criminals with amputation. Indeed, while their Sudanese neighbors
have been physically mutilated, the violence here in Uganda is
poverty. A nurse, a midwife, two medical assistants, and clinical
officer Simon are the only healthcare personnel available to a
rural population of 25,000. Their clinic has little medicine, no
electricity, and limited access to clean water. People die from
curable diseases and malnutrition.

The violence here was once more overt. The region around
Midigo was part of the base of support of former dictator Idi
Amin, whose brutal regime killed an estimated 300,000 Ugandans.
As the rest of the country recovered from his repression, this
area was largely excluded from government projects. Now, with war
to the north in Sudan and to the west in Congo, it is a place
most aid organizations drive through or fly over on the way to
other needs.

"We are sufferinghere," Taban Stephen,
a translator, would repeat as I interviewed other refugees. Most
of my questions were about conditions in Sudan, but he kept
reminding me of this fact.

"One does not live by emergency surgery alone."paraphrase of Matthew 4:4

The appeal of the spectacular isn't limited to individuals,
and Safe Harbor has done spectacular work. They've flown surgical
teams into Sudanese war zones within earshot of approaching
tanks. But they have also begun to heed criticism of so-called
"hit-and-run" relief. They don't want to be just
another well-funded NGO (non-governmental organization) that
circles the globe laden with the latest technology to dispense
proverbial band-aidsand then leaves.

Safe Harbor had hoped to build an airstrip in Midigo to
sustain long-term projects in Sudan, but continued difficulties
with flights there have meant that such an operation will likely
have to be relocated to Kenya. Since our trip, one plane was shot
at by the Ugandan military because of miscommunications among
Ugandan officials.

Despite our disappointment at being barred from Sudan, it
seems that our team's role may have been to plant the seeds of
long-term commitment to Midigo, as the community itself may
become the sole focus of Safe Harbor's work there.

"Listen! A sower went out to sow." Mark
4:3

Evangelism is another arena where Christians often resort to
hit-and-run tactics to get results, but Safe Harbor has taken a
longer-term, service-oriented approach. Their priorities,
however, are clearly stated in their Midigo development plan:
"All of the other work that we do as an organization is in
order to earn the right to tell others about Jesus."

Though the region is predominantly Muslim, it has
elected a Christian, Hon. Menoah Achile Mila, as its member of
parliament. He and Safe Harbor have formed a close relationship,
as both hope to demonstrate the love of Christ by bringing much
needed development to the region.

Our first night in Midigo, the leaders of our group had
planned to present the gospel through preaching and testimony.
They asked me to share. After prayerful consideration, I
declined, unsure of how to express my faith to a culture of which
I had little understanding.

Mila confirmed my reticence when just before the service he
advised that at this early point we should probably not talk much
about Jesus other than to say that we were there as Christians.
Whether his sensitivities were more political or spiritual, I
valued his caution. As much as we wanted others to know the love
of Christ, we wanted to respect the culture in which we were
guests.

Instead of preaching, each member of our group, which included
several Ugandan Christians, shared about themselves, who they
were, and why they were there. Mila led a prayer to "one
God," and after greetings from local elders we concluded by
teaching them the praise chorus "What a mighty God we
serve," breaching the language barrier and forming new
relationships with much laughter. The result: Instead of
scattering seed on untilled ground, we were preparing soil that
the Word might take root.

"When he saw the crowds, he had compassion for them,
because they were harassed and helpless, like sheep without a
shepherd." Matthew 9:36

"This is so wrong," I wrote in my notebook,
journaling to vent my frustration. Our third clinic was set up
under a grove of mango trees, separated from the crowds by flimsy
barricades of twine and ragged volleyball nets. Though our work
was supposed to be part of a long-term development plan, it
seemed to have all the flaws of a hit-and-run operation. I felt
stranded somewhere in between.

A collection of petty dictators enforced crowd control.
Soldiers with AK-47s haphazardly slung from their shoulders were
mimicked by youth in second-hand American Boy Scout outfits who
were mimicked by stick-wielding school-uniformed children. I was
among themat once angry at those cutting in line and
ashamed at how easily I assumed the role of policeman, ordering
mothers with children to "Get back in line! Wait your
turn!"

Tension built, especially at the end of each day when hundreds
of people who had waited hours realized they were not going to be
seen. Whether desperate or curious, people cheated in line,
sneaked under the fence, or grabbed what they could. Children
fought over discarded latex gloves and empty food wrappers. It
was difficult to see how God could be working through a situation
so ugly.

Dr. Phil Byler, our team leader, later offered encouraging
words. "The needs of the multitude are vast," Byler
said. "Only Jesus can multiply the loaves and fish to meet
their needs. We need to be willing to do the part he calls us
to."

I tried to comfort myself with the thought that we were being
faithful if not completely effectivebut I sometimes
wondered if we were being either. The multitudes were there, but
barring a miracle we would not have 12 baskets of chloroquine
(our malaria medication) left over. Why would God send us halfway
around the world to hand out medication for malaria, worms, and
pain relief to people who would get hurt, drink contaminated
water, and get bitten by mosquitoes again even before we left?

"For which of you, intending to build a tower, does
not first sit down and estimate the cost, to see whether you have
enough to complete it?" Luke 14:28

The schoolhouse we slept in during our stay is a metaphor for
hit-and-run development. For its construction, the village had
supplied the bricks and any materials that could be found
locally. A European NGO committed to provide other necessary
materials. Years later, one room has glass in the windows and a
cement floor. A second room has glass in the windows and a dirt
floor. Two other rooms have dirt floors and no glass in the
windows. None of the rooms have desks or chairs. The community
had done its part, but whether from lack of funds, an expired
contract, or "donor fatigue," the NGO pulled out,
leaving its job unfinished.

A few hundred yards down the road, a huddle of round tin
shacks present a stiflingly hot version of the local mud and
thatch hutsa testimony to another charity's misguided sense
of appropriate aid.

Safe Harbor hopes to pursue a more dedicated and sustainable
program by closely consulting local government and community
elders and working alongside them to provide what is most needed.
Plans include the employment of a Ugandan doctor for a new, more
remote clinic as well as a new teacher and supplies for the local
school. They want to introduce new crops and techniques to local
farmers that would allow them to produce more income and food for
themselvesinstead of their current reliance on the meager
cash earned from growing tobacco for exploitative foreign
corporations. They also want to strengthen the local church by
training and developing local leaders.

But counting the cost for this kind of development can be
discouraging. Finding support for a Midigo projectwithout a
Sudan connectionwill be difficult. Spectacular tragedies
capture the most attention (and dollars). Most donors, it seems,
would rather try to turn stones into bread than bricks into
schools.

Safe Harbor's challenge is to find supporters who realize, as
I struggled to, that it is not always the most exciting endeavors
that deserve our attention. Even Jesus' miraculous works were
only temporary. All of the walking lame, cleansed lepers, and
wide-eyed blind eventually died. To commit to the greatest and
most enduring endeavor, Jesus himself had to struggle to pray,
"Not my will but yours be done" (Luke 22:42). Being
obedient to God's call on our own liveswhether it be
sowing, reaping, or something in betweenis never an easy
mission.

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